Interviews
by Cody'sxFavoritexGirl
Summary: A series of oneshots, each an interview with a WWE Superstar or Diva. Some dark, some light; some funny, some serious. Anything you could possibly imagine.


**A/N: I own nothing but the fic and I have no knowledge of any of these events happening for real. I might make these into a series of small interviews, each with a different WWE Superstar or Diva. Feel free to put in your review who you want to see an interview from next. I'll take them all into consideration. Enjoy.**

**Dean Ambrose **

I've never really been a "people person". It stems back to my childhood, I suppose. I never had the kind of stable, loving family that all children should have. Hell, my mother's way of income was whoring herself out night after night. Half the time I couldn't even touch what little food made it to the table because all that I could think about was how it had been earned. But she didn't seem to mind. She just ate most of it; crack sure can fire up your appetite.

Around the time that I turned eleven, the scary black guy who always stood at the end of my block took an interest in me. His name was Lavonne, and he didn't seem to care that I was only a kid. He would grab me by the hood of my sweatshirt every day when I was on my way home after school and yank me to him. Then he'd press packets of dope into my hand and tell me to sell it or he'd kill me. And of course, being eleven, that kind of shit scares the hell out of you, you know? So I'd go sell the dope and come back, and when he saw the wad of cash I was holding he'd thank me by introducing his fist to my face. And then I got to go home to my dear mother, passed out on the couch from either the drugs or the alcohol. Not once did she ask me where the busted lips and black eyes came from. To be honest, I don't think she really gave one fuck.

It dumbfounds me. What mother loves her buzz more than her own kid?

Haha, who the fuck am I kidding. My mother does.

I still don't understand it though. I was a good kid, for the most part. I tried my best to take care of her and be the man of the house because my deadbeat dad ditched us. And yet she sacrificed me for her own personal gain all the time. I mean Christ, I was a kid. Just a fucking kid. What kid deserves that kind of responsibility?

I'm not even sure why I'm even talking about all of this. It's not like anyone gives a fuck. But I'm used to that, it's been that way my entire existence. No one cares until you're dead. In my case, however, no one will even care then. Oh, they'll sit around at my funeral, maybe, talking about whatever memories they have of me. None of them good, I'll bet. As I mentioned earlier, I'm not the friendly type.

Or maybe no one will show up. Maybe I'll have made no friends in this miserable hell that I call life. They probably won't even have a funeral for me. They'll just put me in a box and stick me in a hole in the ground, heap dirt on top of me until I'm gone forever. No headstone, no name, no nothing. Because that's just what I am, right Mother? Nothing.

Now, that's one thing that she never let me forget. That I'll never get anywhere, never be anything. She told me once that my future is just the same as hers. That I was condemned to lie in a heap on some moth-eaten couch, surrounded by empty bottles and reeking of whatever drug I chose to inject into my veins on that particular day. That was my life, she said. I had better get used to it.

I refused to accept that. I wanted to believe that there was more for me than just sitting there waiting to die.

And then I got out into the real world, and I realized that it was no better out here than at home. Everyone was at each other's throats, everyone was smoking or drinking their pain away. The world was just an endless abyss of shattered dreams and broken hearts, and it weighed heavily on me.

Yeah, I did some things that I'm not proud of. Don't we all?

Wrestling was what saved me. If I hadn't discovered it, I swear I really would be under five feet of dirt. I really connected with the world of professional wrestling. After all, it was right up my alley. Violent, hazardous, vicious. It was basically everything I'd grown up in.

And I was really good at it. I took every promotion I arrived at by storm, gaining more and more fans each time until I had a solid following. I actually liken it to a cult. These people adored and pretty much worshiped me. It made my head spin. No one had ever loved me before.

Even now, I have a hard time being around people. I tend to avoid most of my coworkers, lurking silently in the locker rooms, prowling around like a loner. And really, that's what I am. I'm a wolf without a pack, a lion without a pride.

A man without a home.

I suppose that I've embraced the solitude, come to accept it. The only people that even come close to being family are Seth and Roman, and they aren't even related to me. We consider ourselves a trio of brothers, yes, but the blood that pumps through our veins is not the same. They care about me, I know they do, but I just can't fully accept them into my life. Because that would mean delving back into my past and laying it all out for them, and I can't do that. I probably will never be able to.

A wise person once said, "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger." But they're wrong. My experiences didn't kill me, but they definitely killed a part of me, one that I will never be able to get back. They ruined any chances that I had of ever having friends or a family of my own one day. I'm scarred forever, jagged pieces just barely fitted back together. Sometimes I fall apart, and those are the worst days. They are the ones where I just sit in the dark and listen to the roaring in my ears, the sound of implosion.

I'm still not sure why I told you all of this. Who knows, maybe it'll make me feel better. Probably not.

Let's get one thing straight though. I am not asking for sympathy. I'm simply explaining what made me the sick guy I am today. I'm disturbed, twisted, fucked up, whatever you want to call it. I'm all of those things and more. But I accept it. And maybe admitting all of it will help me to heal.

Now get that goddamn camera out of my face. I'm done talking.


End file.
